


Wish You Were Here

by arcadevia



Series: Comfort Fics [6]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depressed Keith (Voltron), Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Keith (Voltron) Angst, Keith (Voltron) has depression, Kissing, M/M, Oops, Pet Names, Stuck in quarantine, lance breaks quarantine, title based on the pink floyd song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 09:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24348421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcadevia/pseuds/arcadevia
Summary: “Shiro said you were having a hard time,” Lance says as they rock from side to side and another quiet gush of Keith’s tears slides over his skin. He doesn’t seem to care for any discomfort, and his tame voice rumbles on. “Figured I’d come over and bully you myself.” They both laugh, but it sounds more like a couple chokes, and Keith doesn’t question the wet prickle against his own ear now. “I broke quarantine cause I missed my grump, also I’ve only been out out once a week, I think the Starbucks lady is getting sick of me— Anaya, but she doesn’t know my name though it’s just“you again?””Or: Keith struggles with depression and quarantine adds to the already unbearable weight. Though Lance can’t fix it, hecanremind Keith he’s still loved.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Series: Comfort Fics [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2065521
Comments: 25
Kudos: 179





	Wish You Were Here

**Author's Note:**

> Quarantine/social distancing has been lowkey taking a toll on my mental health so take this oneshot <3

“It’s a hard time for everyone,” Coran says with a tight smile. He adjusts in his seat on what looks to be a brown couch, which is the only thing visible in frame besides a framed picture of what Keith can barely decipher to be three mice, since the quality of this call is fairly poor.

The pixels of Keith’s laptop screen try desperately to swim through the thick of a spotty connection to keep up with Coran’s movement, and despite the effort being somewhat delayed, this is something Keith needs right now. Although it’s hard to recognize the priority of his mental health over the last bunch of assignments before school’s end, his therapist is here to remind exactly that. Well, so long as he has a stable enough internet connection to understand the gist of their sessions.

“But,” Coran continues, and gives one last tweak to his bright orange mustache before pointing to Keith— or, uh, the camera. “It’s especially difficult for people like _you_.”

 _People with depression,_ he’s basically implying. Depression, or struggling with another mental illness to the degree that the isolation everyone has spontaneously been thrown into during this time is comparable to their _normal_ , and it’s not exactly something to be proud of. Keith would’ve basked in having little to no interruption thanks to quarantine— and he did at first, really, but now there’s less basking and more…

He just feels like a bowl of soggy cereal with no purpose besides being poured down a drain and forgotten about.

Where he was once able to tell each day apart, they’ve all bled into the same mindless routine, or lack thereof. He’s no longer swept up in any motions, following his school schedule or being dragged into whatever hangouts the group has set up. He almost misses _that_ struggle because now there is none. There’s no struggle to stay above it all, on top of a tapering slope that his social, personal, school, and once work life have scraped together.

He can’t be bothered anymore. A certain string of events has led to his body being turned to a useless lump of clay, and the world is none the wiser. And where his heart would once pump determinedly on, perhaps with a little relief, it’s taken to a slower beat that he himself just can’t spring a burst of life into.

It beats.

one.

two..

three…

A certain kind of consistent tiredness has crept over him. It repeatedly fractures his bones, every last one, until the crushed grains have taken on the same density as heavy, heavy sand. Shuffling around his apartment has become a task in itself, and it feels like there are several little punctures in his body from where the grains spill out like a broken hourglass or splintered bag of rice as his energy dies away.

 _“Make sure to get fresh air,”_ Coran has reminded him during every appointment.

one.

two..

three… 

It’s been two months since everything began, since their state senator announced official quarantine measures and his life took a turn for the worse. Two months of not seeing any of his friends, (save for Shiro since he conveniently lives in the neighboring apartment building); of making his own meals as often as his energy allows; of burning out his fuse over schoolwork; of taking gradually less and less frequent walks with Kosmo; of becoming so _drained_ that making it past a simple _“how are you?”_ text without abandoning it for another, much later, time has turned into an exhausting battle.

It’s quite cruel how easily sabotaged his relationships are at the expense of this. But Coran has told him to take things one at a time, and Keith, ever so desperate, has changed it to taking it one _text_ at a time. Because there’s no denying the way his heart makes a genuine pulse when Lance’s name shows up on his phone screen. He’ll be damned if he doesn’t somehow keep his head in this for as long as his friend’s flirts and affection will go on.

He doesn’t want to lose Lance, or anyone, yet it’s a simple imbalance in his brain that seems to desire otherwise.

 ** _Lance 💙:_** _I’m not going anywhere._

one.

two..

three…

It’s a Tuesday afternoon, the sun teetering just before the start of a sunset, when Keith has his epiphany that nothing is beautiful anymore.

Life is not beautiful in the way things once had been, when the sun baked his skin to the point of painful redness but he had experiences worthy enough to justify such a fleeting inconvenience. When monsoon season would arrive and the smell of damp creosote leaves was the fragrance of a day well spent, rather than a day wondering where that excitement for the outdoors had gone. Wet streets had once been a scene for he and his father’s boisterous antics. Years later though, past the man’s death and in what _should_ be a new phase of Keith’s life, they’re only an image he dwells on from indoors, on the other side of a window.

Like now, he finds himself renewing that very pattern again as he admires sequin-like shines of sunlight that sparkle between leaves of trees and cast shadows that dance with every movement from the wind. It’s from the confines of his bedroom that he admires such a sight, or at least tries to. Admiring turns to dwelling. Dwelling on what could’ve been, what he could be doing right now if he had it in himself to actually get up and be productive. He could’ve been doing things for _years_ if grief hadn’t gotten the best of him and the weight from it hadn’t made a comfortable home in his brain. Even while he’s mostly accepted his father’s death, apparently there’s more to his life that needs to be fucked up from what feels like a permanent ache.

Nothing is beautiful anymore.

But he keeps his fingers tangled in Kosmo’s thick fur as they lay side by side, for reassurance that at least something else is present with him. Something important to him.

Keith feels the rise and fall of life under his hand with everyone breath Kosmo takes—

one

two

three

—and he begins to cry.

It starts with reverent puddles at the corners of his eyes, sad, unlike the kind he’d happily skip through all that time ago. Sad puddles and faint trembling that eventually rocks those small pinprick tears out and down across his nose, onto the other cheek because he’s laying on his side as has been for the past hour or two.

He wishes things would change, that this will all be over, that he can take back his life with an even firmer grasp now that he knows what it’s like to become _only_ a shell, and not a cross between that and something desperately clinging to life.

Kosmo’s fur tickles his nose, but he cries on amongst a thin veil of white noise from his fan, only fracturing the quiet with a small sniff or hiccup. He scoots his dog into a full embrace because he _really needs this right now_ and Kosmo is caring enough to shimmy even closer during his impromptu (but recently more frequent) breakdowns.

Nothing is beautiful anymore, because he doesn’t have it in him to see it.

_Creeeeak_

He feels Kosmo’s ears flick upright at the same moment his bedroom door is being pushed open, but last he remembers, no one is meant to come over and he hasn’t gotten a heads up text for any arrivals from Shiro.

“Well if it isn’t my two favorite boys,” a voice says right when Keith wipes his face on his long sleeve and shifts upright to turn in that direction.

It feels almost unreal, even though two months considerably isn’t quite long. Nonetheless, the distinct sound of Lance’s voice traveling directly to Keith’s ears and not through a speaker or anything of the sort feels like a dream within itself, one he’s been dazed over for an embarrassing amount of times but this isn’t the time for dwelling because it’s _Lance_.

“Hey bubba!” Lance greets Kosmo a second before the dog hobbles across the bed and all but leaps onto him, throwing the boy off balance. “ _Whoa—_ aww such a _cutie_ ,” he coos while scrubbing his long fingers around Kosmo’s ears and down his back. “Such a good boy! You missed Lancey, huh? Yeah you did!”

Keith missed Lancey too… to be fair. He can’t bother to bat away the ridiculous nickname from the muddled state he’s in because it’s another stupid thing he missed.

He missed his friend’s rowdiness, the kind that’s gotten them both riled up and consequently banned from Walmart for a month— okay, _two_ months (don’t ask). It makes his nerves crackle with amped up energy, like a snapped glow stick waiting to alight a scandalous scene. Time spent with Lance is the equivalent to actively signing a waiver for some sort of trouble, like spraining his ankle in a Lowe’s parking lot at 2 a.m., or drunkenly making out in a stranger’s lining closet but not acknowledging it the following day, half because he’s still not sure if it was a dream and the other half being _if Lance won’t bring it up then Keith won’t either_.

And even if it did happen, even if they had collided in such a way, in a place they weren’t supposed to be in, and the long fingers that scratch at Kosmo’s fur _now_ were the same one’s haphazardly sprawled across the bare skin under the hem of his untucked shirt _then_ , there’s not much to reminisce on when it’s something entirely too vague to over-analyze. Not to say he hasn’t, though, because he’s definitely driven himself mad over the sheer possibility, so much so that the times his eyes glaze over in deep thought he ends up looking like “buffering YouTube video” (as described by Lance himself, who is oh-so-conveniently nearby when this happens).

But his point is that the feigned forgetfulness shouldn’t be mourned over, because there’s a more recent influx of just as interesting notifications from Lance. They’re the kind he can pay at least half his mind to, with all the _‘I miss you’_ s and _‘ <3’_s and random rant videos on snapchat at 3 a.m. that somehow circle back to _‘i miss ur dumb face’_ to which Keith responds _‘I miss your dumb face too’_ because that much is true and he can at least pick up hints of potential when they’re dropped so openly. Quarantine has made Lance the same type of bold over the phone as he would be during typical drunk shenanigans.

And apparently, it’s enough for Lance to string along face to face as Keith sniffs again with a closed smile and the former turns his attention over with a wicked grin. “Bubba number t—“ Lance’s mischief immediately falters, the curve of his mouth moving to shift his brows up in concern while his jaw unhinges with bubbling worry. “Keith, are you okay?”

Lance’s ministrations taper down until he finally straightens back to full height and Kosmo is left whining at the foot of the bed. He looks fresh, surprisingly, as if all the time leading up to this moment has been spent with an equally chipper and productive attitude. There’s still random splotches of dampness along his head, likely from a shower just before heading out, that rise prickly patches of clipped, spiky hair in their wake. It’s a look that makes Keith’s heart turn soft, well, softer than it naturally does all the other times he’s seen Lance. _“Little hedgehog”_ , he’s taken calling his friend when the spazzed-out hair makes an appearance, and Lance gets more upset about the “little” part than anything else, because the inch he’s got on Keith is something he must’ve vowed to cling to like a lifeline going by the continuous torment over it.

The rest of him is just as casually put together, with his long legs clad in fitted black sweatpants, paired with a faded white Dire Straits shirt that’s— that’s _his_ , that shirt is _Keith’s_ and this fucker must’ve snatched it away along with the whole stash of clothes he’s sure Lance has because _too many times_ has this boy showed up with some article of clothing he surely doesn’t own himself. This is why Shiro is convinced they’ve slept together, which aside from the literal sense is quite _false_ , and Keith can’t find it in him to keep pulling defenses out of his ass when there clearly is a suggestive image going on here.

Keith nods with a sheepish smile, staving off the lingering strings of a certain helplessness, though they cling to him like stubborn lint all the same. It’s mostly overridden by shock though because why exactly is Lance here? Going by the boy’s notorious streak of spontaneity, it’s quite fitting, but he’d at least like to find a bigger reason underneath all this…

Lance slouches over to take Keith’s hand in a wordless movement, then latches on to pointedly tug him up. The comforters drag from Keith sliding off the edge of his bed until he stands on his own two feet.

He already feels the phantom sand falling from those invisible tears in his spent body, but Lance continues to clutch him, none the wiser to Keith slowly withering away by the second while they embrace with a sureness that he’s craved for so long. It feels like the rips are sealing though, or their once welcomed cascade has been slowed by a stubborn force. And the image should be a funny one: Lance trying desperately to save copious amounts of Keith’s useless sand, as if it held the same value as the beach he’s so fond of from childhood, while it spilled between his curled fingers. It should be funny, to imagine his friend scrambling to fix something clearly worn beyond repair, at least in the moment, while making light remarks with a sheepish smile. It should be funny but—

Keith hiccups. His eyelashes and cheeks smearing wetness down the column of Lance’s neck, and though the shirt is technically his own, he still feels bad for dampening the collar. He can be called some sort of melancholic beach now, as he holds onto Lance while spilling literal tears and figurative sand. It’s not the kind he’d expect to find Lance spending the beginning of his summer at, yet… he’s here, with an even tighter hold than Keith’s.

“Shiro said you were having a hard time,” Lance says as they rock from side to side and another quiet gush of Keith’s tears slides over his skin. He doesn’t seem to care for any discomfort, and his tame voice rumbles on. “Figured I’d come over and bully you myself.” They both laugh, but it sounds more like a couple chokes, and Keith doesn’t question the wet prickle against his own ear now. “I broke quarantine cause I missed my grump, also I’ve only been _out_ out once a week, I think the Starbucks lady is getting sick of me— _Anaya_ , but she doesn’t know my name though it’s just _“you again?”_ ”

Keith can’t help his snicker when he loosens the hug just enough to face Lance properly. It’s believable, considering the same thing happened at McDonald’s in which the drive thru worker gave Lance a bewildered _“Isn’t this your third time today?”_ to which his friend responded, ever so eager, _“The grind never stops, my guy!”_.

“I missed you too,” he says to Lance, and his voice wavers just a little when he catches sight of a faint streak of wetness down Lance’s cheek. He lifts his hand to gently swipe it away by the pad of his thumb, but it’s more or less already faded and he should be worrying about his _own_ case after that small sob fest.

Lance’s closed smile stretches into an amused grin. It tugs into the small line of his dimple and displays a set of pearly white teeth, which pinch onto what must be a piece of peppermint gum going by the sweet sting that hits Keith’s nose when the boy responds “Course ya did” and gives his bottom a friendly pat. To him, to _Lance_ that’s friendly, also his nicknames he tosses around in some sort of passive affection for his friends.

“You take your medication, cariño?” Lance asks after flopping onto the bed, he must’ve toed off his shoes at the door since Keith only sees candy-cane patterned socks wiggling tauntingly at him. What a weirdo.

He sighs, feeling less like a sack of rice and more like something else now that Lance is here. Something with purpose, potential, since his friend is visiting _him_ in particular. “Yeah, like an hour ago,” he responds without pointing out the little nickname.

It makes his ears heat and scalp tingle, being addressed with such endearment so casually, because somehow along the wild ride of his friendship with Lance he had earned a special right to this. And at no particular point had the terms drastically shifted, Keith can’t say when _“Dude, look at this”_ turned to _“Gracias, bebé”_ and eventually even to _“G’night, mi cielo”_. He can’t say _when_ , but it _did_ happen and it’s still going as Lance seems to have made it his mission to make it rain with the pet names.

And that nonchalant affection has bled into Lance’s approach to Keith— _physical_ approach, in which closeness has become his next best way of saying hello. Keith is no stranger to it, sure, he’ll mentally comprehend that the arms hooked over his shoulders from behind while he’s studying in the library are Lance’s, or the legs slung over his lap as he sits on Shiro’s couch nursing a drink, or the pressure against his neck is either Lance’s jutted chin or pointy nose. Mentally, he is no stranger to it.

Physically, he may as well have never known Lance though, since almost every single touch sends startlingly pleasant zaps through his nerves and jumpstart plains of goosebumps across his once unsuspecting skin. Being wrapped up in the boy’s bubble of tactility is like barreling down a cheap staticky slide on a playground, but instead of earning painful shocks from metal bolts, he twitches at the expense of Lance’s brazen fingertips and each new movement is just another reminder of the fact that _god, he is so gay_.

So predictably, when Keith simply lifts a knee onto the edge of his bed for easy leverage, Lance takes that as a go ahead and darts forward, hooking onto Keith until his arms uncross and they’re free to tug closer. “And have you showered?” he asks as Keith falls down onto the space next to him.

“I did last night.” _Fortunately_ , because now he can feel comfortable relishing the sensation of that familiar hand carefully sweeping through his hair. His fingers curl, eyes fluttering for a moment before the sight of a dazed looking Lance has sharpened back into proper vision.

“Hm,” Lance hums simply and let’s the moment dwindle on before reaching back. Keith’s heart deflates a little, quite pathetically, since those ministrations were only halted long enough for Lance to toss his gum in the nearby trash bin. “Fair enough,” Lance continues after turning back over. He takes the hem of a light blanket at the end of the bed and lifts it’s edges in one smooth motion. The thin fabric soars high for a moment, peeling apart each fold, before fluttering down to their waiting bodies and settling with the same sense of gentleness as Lance’s initial care.

Keith longs for a sight quite similar, but perhaps on a less dreary day for his mood and accompanied by a picnic basket. But now isn’t the time for that. Now isn’t the time for anything. And honestly, had Lance not shown up, Keith would undoubtedly let himself rot on this bed alone for hours. Seems like they’re rotting together now, or a little more on the reveling side since it’s _Lance_.

“You only come here to baby me?” He asks once they’ve settled into this little nook. It reminds him of the kind of sleepovers he rarely had growing up. It’s in the way Lance’s eyes crinkle when his toothy smile makes the apples of his cheeks rise high, or the way they’re huddled intimately close underneath this blanket, as if exchanging secrets like _“Who do you have a crush on?”_ and Keith’s clumsy heart would undoubtedly, immediately think _“You.”_

Lance doesn’t falter at Keith’s dig. Instead, he scoops his hand underneath Keith’s to press them palm to palm, then twine their fingers together with little resistance. “If that’s what it takes~” he sing-songs ridiculously and draws their hands in close to himself.

It’s interesting. Very… interesting.

_And very much flirting_ , his conscience says, less like his own voice and more annoyingly like Shiro’s. But rather than swatting away the thought like a pesky fly, he decides to hang on and keep it pinched underneath a magnifying glass of suspicion. It multiplies several other similar situations he’s been caught in that have the same undertone of luring suggestion. Ones of barely-lit lining closets and too-friendly touches at a pool party and something fleeting, like a kiss but he’s still not quite sure, against his temple right before he swooped into unconsciousness on the couch at Lance and Hunk’s apartment.

 _“He likes you,”_ Shiro’s voice is telling him. So he hooks onto the challenge and raises his brows, letting the ghost of a smile overtake his face while Lance stares with a matching lidded gaze. Surely something is beginning to stir between them, and it’s only a matter of time before their unspoken understanding is cracked.

It begins to waver when Lance caves in, albeit hesitantly. “But uh.. do you not want me here? I mean- like, should I—?”

“I want you here, Lance,” He answers and his heart frantically rattles with panic because this is the best he’s got, he can’t afford slinking back that lonely cycle of dead happiness.

Without Lance, he’s confident that the neverending, off tune and miserable merry-go-round his mind has been riding would plunge into the ground and make every passing day a trip closer to hell.

Because any chance his friend has, he’ll hop right on too and make the ride less tortuous and more worthwhile. Lance changes Keith’s carnival of misery to a place with vibrant colors and cheery music. And although in the meantime Keith can’t just miraculously hop off, Lance has strung him along and taught his heart to dance between the rise and fall of each glossy animal.

And with that, he’s found himself uncaring for sunburns or scraped skin or rain soaked clothes or aching hangovers because _Lance_ is the reason Keith’s been dragged into what _should_ be misfortune if he wasn’t so damn smitten. They’re all something to look forward to when—

It’s then that he realizes it— still a Tuesday afternoon, the sun teetering just before the start of a sunset, when he has his epiphany that nothing is beautiful anymore, but Lance somehow proves that otherwise.

“For how long?” Lance asks in sweet oblivion to Keith’s infinitely swooping heart just from his presence.

_“Probably forever,”_ he’s quick to think.

“As long as you want,” he says instead as a welcome invitation to hopefully Lance’s lasting version of forever, then adds as an afterthought: “I just— you were right, or I mean I guess Shiro was. I’m just not doing good so just—“ He meets Lance’s gaze again after nervously glancing around the room, and the thumb continuously brushing against his hand. “Stay. However long that is,” he finishes.

Lance’s shoulders jump from his short and subtle laugh. His smile turns too giddy for Keith not to notice, and he had a feeling he shouldn’t worry too much about being left behind in the midst of a spiral, but he still waits in apprehension. “Got me ready for a six month lease or something,” Lance says and readily hooks his ankle over Keith’s underneath the shared blanket.

“Wouldn’t that be fun,” Keith responds and even he himself isn’t sure whether that was sarcastic or not. By god would living with Lance, his big fat _crush_ , send him into cardiac arrest from close to 24/7 interaction, as if feeling like an eager schoolgirl when just seeing the other’s face during a hangout wasn’t enough.

“Yeah? You think so?” Lance says teasingly and hooks his knee over Keith’s now in renewed confidence. He inches closer and Keith feels his pulse double, yet untangles their hands to slide his over at the small of Lance’s back. “Every night’s a party,” —Keith’s cheeks ache from smiling— “and you’d probably steal my body wash cause it smells so great.” Hell yeah it does, and if having Lance hovering over him all dewy and fresh wasn’t enough, the all encompassing, citrusy smell of whatever that soap is called (Lance has surely told him before) really seals the deal.

“You’d take my clothes though,” he counters and plucks the fabric of his Dire Straits shirt to further his point.

Lance leans down, balanced at the elbow, just enough for Keith’s nose to distinguish a rivaling scent of peppermint breath against saccharine skin. “Perhaps,” the boy says in a gentle puff. “Anything else?”

“If you want there to be.” He’s choked up and juggling self control and bursting enthusiasm for what’s possibly to come.

“You know I do,” Lance easily admits, just as much as the rest of his approach has been.

It feels like time spent away doubles as time spent brewing ideas for what could’ve been, what _could be_ , and it takes that much for them to understand this has been something stuffed under wraps for too long. The world is dying but the most he can do is replace time spent alone with this, an opportunity to witness Lance face to face and _still_ somehow see a tinge of those carnival lights against the boy’s skin, and somehow see the reflection of a merry image in those wide blue eyes. Lance is cornucopia of affection, somehow bringing the influx of Keith’s daydreams to life with little carefulness to spare and it’s downright _suffocating_ but fuck it, he’s ready to feel like he’s breathing through a straw if it means swimming through waters of paradise.

Which is why Keith kisses him.

He drives up by the base of his neck (because that’s all it takes) and latches onto Lance’s lips, loose and ready for taking. It’s like pushing life into them from how instantaneous the reaction is. Lance prods his bottom lip between Keith’s in one breath and makes the sensation a new addition to the many layers of home he’s introduced before. It’s not something to take for granted, he knows that much, no matter how overflowing these givings are Keith isn’t sure when they’ll stop, _if_ they do, but there’s no chances to take.

He doesn’t have it in him to watch Lance fall apart either because apparently, like all their past encounters, they go down together. Lance turns muddled at the edges when he clumsily straddles Keith entirely and seems to care less and less for balance when he doesn’t let up on giving his all. His all, which is what _would_ be invasive if Keith wasn’t laying his heart bare in the narrow gap between them, compressing more and more as Lance lowers himself until there’s nearly no space left.

It’s making him stagger and fumble for something to latch onto like Lance has done with the slope of his bicep and curve of his jaw. His brows furrow in concentration and the small of Lance’s back has become a steady platform to keep his hands on. There’s muscle twitching underneath that thin fabric, as eager as the mouth against his, and it jumps at a reverent stroke of his hand after dipping his fingers past the shirt’s hem.

 _Slow down_ , he tries communicating by pinching his teeth down on the thick of Lance’s lip. It drags from achingly eager resistance, but Keith presses firm to Lance’s skin and it’s all he has in him to admit _‘I’m dying here’_ because he’s afraid something spoken will tear this away.

It slows. Lance’s hot breaths warm the wet patches around Keith’s mouth as he pants from exertion. What was once messy and desperate turns careful, allowing the smallest sliver of space for a few seconds while the tension tapers away. Keith dips back up in a last, modest tribute:

one.

two..

three…

He can’t quite describe the sound because a _click_ does it no justice, but hearing the small notes of both fervent and reverent kisses is something he can’t let go of, and he hopes he won’t have to. A song should have a certain rhythm and melody and chorus— but this is a song too, even if scrambled. From Lance’s high hums to Keith’s chopped breaths to the blanket shifting and the constant, _heavy_ , thundering pulse beating through his body.

Lance leans back and keeps Keith’s gaze stringed to observant blue eyes. He sits on Keith’s lap like a throne, like it’s his rightful place, as if the hands at Keith’s ribs are entitled to any other place they desire and _fuck_ does Keith want that so badly. Any time, and he means it, so much so he prays that whatever Lance is searching for is deemed worthy because sure, this may be his body and his bed and his apartment but it’s just not enough.

Until it is.

There’s a telltale quirk in Lance’s mouth as he tilts downward and cards through Keith’s undoubtedly tousled bangs. They stare, and stare, and stare while his hair is twirled around Lance’s long fingertips and Keith isn’t brave enough to hold Lance the way he wants to yet.

“I’m guessing you want this too then,” Lance finally says with an air of humor. His hair is still damp and rumpled along with his shirt collar. Keith feels like he’s made it into the depth of Lance’s character where everything is sweet and soft like cotton candy, and it’s all just from a kiss— or at least he’d like to assume so.

Keith nods. “ _Yeah_ ,” just for good measure.

“Are you sure? I know things have been—“

“I do.” It’s firm and already steadfast for the sake of holding onto this moment, and potentially several more, before it could ever fall through defeated fingers just like all his past pleasantries. He wants it and is almost disappointed he hadn’t jumped to any initiation early on, but at least Lance is here, fresh and soft as newly washed linen... But of course, also terribly cocky.

“Oh, you do?” Lance feigns surprise but Keith can read obvious signs of preening from validation. Everything about Lance shows he’s all too knowing of his impact and takes advantage of it far past Keith’s usual set extent. His heart strings are plucked at like a violin but damn is Lance a good musician when it comes down to that idea. “Hold on, what did you want again?” Lance continues with a tease.

Keith finds it best to just roll his eyes and get on with it. “You.” He trails up Lance’s shirt again and there’s no way those goosebumps can be suppressed which makes it all the more satisfying. Lance, ever so confident, shivering under Keith’s touch in the midst of acting high and mighty. How charming.

“What about me?” Lance prods his nose against Keith’s cheek, places a kiss at the corner of his mouth too.

Keith tilts his head and centers those lips against the curve of his own. _I love you. God I love you so fucking much._ “Everything. For us to date, and— and go out on actual dates when we can…” he trails off while Lance stamps a generous trail of kisses down his jaw. “To have you as my— uh, my boyfriend.”

The trail tapers, finally halting at his pulse with one last _smooch_ before Lance swings back. His hair streaks under Keith’s chin like several tiny wet paint brushes, but it’s paid no mind. “Well I think I have no choice but to accept…” he says longingly, but that peeking smile betrays his tone.

“What an honor,” Keith responds sarcastically.

“Heck yeah it is, babe.” He gets another kiss— several, actually, because neither of them can get enough. Here they go with the pet names… “But seriously,” Lance continues and takes a breath. “I-I like you, Keith. But when I’d show it before I didn’t know if you did— if you liked me back because sometimes you don’t reach out and just…”

And that’s the thing. He can’t exactly use depression as an excuse for his mindless shitty habits, but it’s somewhat comparable to the great slope of a rollercoaster. The cart cranks high and gears turn frustratingly slow as they fight against gravity’s insistent pull. Apprehension builds, he’s moving closer to the peak as tracks are traveled one by one. It’s hard, the effort is exerting, but when the cart has reached the top, there’s a sea of city lights undulating across a wild expanse of land. It’s so breathtaking he almost wants to cry, maybe he does sometimes, because he’d never imagined returning to that state of euphoria he had before.

Lights twinkle, wheels slow down, and at the foot of the ride is a merry-go-round frozen still.

Waiting for his return.

Doubt creeps in and it makes the tracks creak as his cart resumes its mission. _They only like you when you’re happy; don’t be a bother to them; you take care of this yourself because you can’t depend on someone forever; this is_ your _problem your problem your problem—_

There’s a terrifying second where his heart soars high— but it’s not from elation, it’s from the sheer force of a great spontaneous swoop back down to the taunting hellish place he’d been stuck before.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, because that much is true and it’s an apology Lance deserves. “I can’t just fix this though, and it’s not _you_ or _anyone_ it’s just something I have to live with…” He places his hand over the one carressing his cheek. “It’s hard depending on other people because—“ He huffs out a gentle laugh and blinks at a brimming tear until it tumbles down his temple and soaks Lance’s fingertip. “I don’t know when it’s gonna end and I’ll be on my own again.”

Lance’s lips wobble as he turns to lay at Keith’s side, hand still valiantly anchored against his cheek. “But I’m not gonna leave you,” he says in a cracked voice, a blatant sign of his overflowing empathy.

“I-I know, Lance.” Lance’s face is pinched from the melancholy in Keith’s confession. His lips pout and nose crinkles and Keith can’t help thinking it’s cute, but not as much as when the boy is happy. “Sweetheart,” he tries for a short pickup, even though it feels a bit weird to say. Lance’s hand twitches along with the corners of his mouth. “I just need to be reminded… or something,” he trails uncertainly.

“I’ll do that then,” Lance says. “I’ll do it everyday, I’ll do it so much it’ll annoy the heck out of you, I’ll do it until you go _crazy_.” He pokes Keith’s chest while wearing the most (humorously) convincing expression he can muster.

Keith chokes out a laugh and feels his cart traveling back up the tracks, but this time, he hopes that peak drags on for longer. “I’m already crazy for you, though,” he spills from his muddled, lovesick instincts, and drinks in the sight of Lance trying to stammer through the pink that creeps up his own skin.

“Wh— _well_ , okay actually though— you know what? That was good. That was a good one, Kogane.”

“I’d hope so.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Lance huffs out and moves his hand to slide around Keith’s waist. “Now get over here,” he says, even though Keith is already close enough and Lance is moving anyway.

Keith allows himself to bask in Lance’s string of kisses, each one taking a longer pull than the last and reeling him into a pool of sugary citrus and cloudy peppermint winds. He’s an intact sandcastle; he’s dancing between sculpted animals to a tune he’s been subjected to for years; he’s at the top of the rollercoaster.

It’s a Tuesday afternoon, the sunset bathing his bedroom in a burnt orange glow, when Keith has his epiphany that things can still be beautiful, and he’s going to be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> exclusive fics on [my instagram](https://instagram.com/arcadevia?igshid=1bqu2rmbht9gq)
> 
> Make sure to be patient with/take care of yourselves, check in with friends who struggle with mental illness, and understand that life isn’t normal right now and we gotta accept that.
> 
> This oneshot _may_ become a quarantine series, please don’t cancel me for Lance technically breaking the rules, my boy is rarely going anywhere (poor Anaya tho lol)
> 
> Leave comments/drop kudos!! I love getting feedback so whatever y’all got I’m here for it :)


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